


Are you happy to see me?

by wretcheddyke



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, First Time, eve is back from poland and villanelle is back from mother russia, post 3x05, soft sex that wishes it was hate sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:55:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24239887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wretcheddyke/pseuds/wretcheddyke
Summary: Eve and Villanelle meet after the events of Are You From Pinner?
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 24
Kudos: 276





	Are you happy to see me?

She’s sat at the table when Eve gets home. It jolts her at first—in the way it always does when she comes face to face with those grey slate eyes—and she feels the tightness in her chest as the adrenaline hits and her blood vessels contract. She wishes for the anger to bubble up like last time. Longs for it to course through her veins and spill out her fingers in forceful blows. She wants to feel the stinging catharsis of a well landed hit. But it doesn’t come. Her arms are heavy at her sides much like her heart in her chest and the adrenaline passes as quickly as it arrives. 

Her sandy hair is down around her face, a little greasy and unkempt, she looks somewhat drowned. Eve thinks it makes her look younger, innocent even. Sat at the kitchen table like a child fresh from the beach, waiting for supper to be served. _Stupid._ A part of her wants to ask about Niko, about Kenny, about the Twelve, about what their plan is and why she’s still involved. But her arms are heavy and she wants a glass of wine and to just _forget_ for a moment that this is what her life has turned into. That this is what she _chose_ to turn her life into. 

“Hi.” It comes out cracked and frail. _Am I crying? No. I’m angry, remember?_ She drops her luggage on the floor, rips off her raincoat of throws that on the pile too. 

“You look sad.” Her tone isn’t empathetic. It’s almost accusatory as if Eve might be ruining the mood or stealing the spotlight. 

“I’m not sad.” And honestly, it’s the truth. This thing in her chest, weighing her down, is far too big and empty to be described as sadness. “Would you like a glass of wine?” 

“Is it good?” _Asshole_.

“No.” 

“Sure.” 

Eve pours two glasses and places them on the table before sitting. Her joints relax in harmony as soon as the weight's off her tired limbs. She wishes she was on her bed but the rickety wooden chair will do for now. She lets the merlot slip down her throat and warm her cheeks and she shuts her eyes to enjoy the feeling. Even with her eyes shut she can feel Villanelle’s stare boring into her, her impatience radiating out of her in waves.

“Are you happy to see me?” 

Eve sighs a laugh without opening her eyes. The beginnings of that beautiful rage start to fizz at the obscenity of the question; the brazenness; the fucking audacity. All the things she wants to spit at her dance behind her eyes— _you fucking bitch! you ruined my fucking life! I fucking hate you!_ —they cramp up her tongue and they stick in her throat and choke her til all she can do is sigh her defeated laugh. 

And then she looks.

Her grey eyes are glossy and her eyebrows knit together in a way that suggests… hope? Like she needs Eve to have missed her. Like she’s pleading with her to say she did. She looks vulnerable and lost and Eve _knows_ she’s being manipulated, she _must_ be. But she looks so young and so helpless that the lies and the rage she’s organised on her lips fall away. 

“Yeah,” Eve admits. 

The hopefulness shifts to delight and her forehead relaxes and her face breaks into a smile but her eyes are still glossy with tears. She looks so different now to last week, bravado and smugness completely absent from her posture. It makes Eve’s chest ache in a way she didn’t know she was capable of anymore. 

“What happened to you?” Eve asks and leans forward on her chair. 

“I found my family.” She says, raising her eyebrows as if to say _'pretty cool, huh?'_

“And what were they like?” She’s not even sure if they’re playing a game anymore or just talking like normal people might. The air is still painfully still like something awful might happen at any moment. 

She shrugs and makes a face as if the answer is meaningless but a tear leaves a hot track down her cheek when her eyes close. “I had to kill Mama.” She says eventually. 

Some passing thought tells Eve that that should upset her. That she should be shocked or repulsed or horrified. But the news slips past her like water over worn rocks. _What's one more kill?_

“She was a real bitch.” She puts emphasis on _real_ and blows air out her cheeks like she's mimicking a character from some American sitcom or another. There’s something about it that is so obviously forged that it becomes transparent and the pain that resides underneath glitters below the surface. Eve wants to scoop it out with her fingertips. 

She cups her cheek, like she had so many months ago in her old home, and feels the sticky tears under her palm. “I’m sorry.” She whispers and she can see Villanelle furiously searching her eyes for the lie but she won’t find it. 

“I burnt them all alive while they were sleeping.” There’s a hint of anger under the mania like she’s getting annoyed Eve won’t cave and reject her again as she did in Roam. _She’s testing me,_ Eve thinks. She can see the imprint of flames licking around wood in Villanelles eyes from watching her family burn— _did she stay to watch?—_ but it only serves to warm her. 

“That must have been hard for you.” Eve strokes her cheek with her thumb and her expression relaxes again. 

“It was a bit.” She confesses in a murmur, sinking into Eve’s touch and letting herself be soothed by the words for a moment. 

It’s like stroking a sedated lion being this close and Eve can’t resist poking at sharp teeth. She moves her thumb to rest on Villanelle’s bottom lip. There’s no scar on her mouth anymore, no lipstick either, and she pulls back the flesh to expose pearly whites. 

“Could I stay for a bit?” She asks and her warm breath tickles the tip of Eve’s thumb. 

“Sure.” 

She feels Villanelle’s head moves down and then there’re teeth sat snug around the first knuckle of her thumb. That familiar jolt hits her again and she can feel her heart beating so loudly it thrums in her eardrums. Her legs buzz and her breathing hitches and sweat prickles across her neck. Something in her screams at her to pull her hand away before the animal takes a limb but her muscles are frozen and her mind is crystal clear. _Wide awake._ It’s the first time she’s been alive since Villanelle killed her. 

The feeling of a hot tongue wriggling against the pad of her thumb sends a different kind of shock through her. It melds into her and her lips seal around the knuckle and she sucks, all soft and warm and wet and inviting. She’s transfixed by the sight, her cheeks hollowing out to emphasise already ridiculously pronounced cheekbones. She can feel grey eyes burrowing through her skull and into her mind but she’s too captivated to care. 

It becomes overtly sexual when she pushes down to the second knuckle and licks up and down the length of her thumb. It’s sickeningly primal and she feels like she’s glimpsing for a moment behind the facade. _What the fuck am I doing?_

Long fingers are at the waistband of her trousers, fiddling with the button and undoing the zip. 

“What are you doing? Stop.” Eve pushes her hands away and stands from the table and the air in the room makes her thumb cold.

“Why?” She asks, sitting back in the chair. Eve expects her say to something stupid like _‘This is inevitable, Eve.’_ or _‘I know you want to, Eve.’_ that will force her to walk away, no matter how true it’d be. But she doesn’t. She sits and waits for a response, expression completely unreadable. 

She spends a minute searching for things to say. _Because you shot me. Because you’re a killer. Because I hate you. Because of Bill. Because look at what you’ve done to me._

Her hands fall to her zipper and she undoes it the rest of the way before sliding fabric down her legs. There’s finally a hint of something human in Villanelle’s eyes as she watches the smooth skin of Eve’s thighs and she’s up, stalking across the studio flat to back her towards the bed. It's like a dance, their mouths inches apart, their feet taking synchronised steps—Eve can’t tell who’s leading—until her calfs hit the foot of the bed. 

Breath mingles, a sour taste of red wine, and Eve realises she’s waiting for permission. She thinks about slapping her for a moment. This isn’t what she had envisioned when she’d let her mind creep to dark corners. She expected anger and teeth and hitting and biting. She thinks about hitting her as hard as she can and watching the rage flood her pupils so she’ll choke her until she’s as blue as she feels. 

She pushes her lips to hers so gently she’s not even sure it could be considered a kiss. Their eyes are open and she can see the frown on her face. She pulls back for a moment but Villanelle is a statue. It’s eerie, in a way, as if she has disappeared somewhere deep inside herself. The only thing that reanimates her is Eve’s tongue sliding across her bottom lip and then, like a switch being flipped, she is hungry and primal and drinking Eve in. 

Her fingers find the bottom of Eve’s loose cotton shirt and she rips it up and over her head. 

“Don’t do that.” 

“Okay. I’m sorry.” It’s so childish. Said with the petty tone of a teenager being scolded for staying out too late. Eve hates that it’s endearing. They both look down at her body, aged black underwear probably not flattering for her body type but fuck, what does she know about lingerie. “You have a beautiful body.” 

“Shut up.” 

She lays back on the bed and watches her undo her trousers. Her heart leaps when she pushes her underwear down along with them. She isn’t really sure what she expected— _you started this_ —but the sight of her snaps her back to reality. She doesn’t seem phased at all by Eve’s lingering gaze and it’s a cold reminder of what she is. 

Once the rest of her clothes are discarded, she climbs onto the bed to straddle Eve’s hips and then she’s there, right in front of her to touch, all long legs and toned muscles and soft skin.

“Are you just going to stare?” 

“I— I don’t know.” Eve’s hands lay motionless on the bed. 

“Well can I touch myself? Because I will get bored.”

The air is sucked from her lungs hot spikes flush her face at that as she stammers out her reply, “I—Yeah, I… suppose.” 

Long fingers disappear at the apex of her legs. _I shouldn’t be staring. She wants me to stare._ The room is filled with wet noises at soft breaths. _Fuck._ The occasional knocks against her underwear by moving knuckles sends little shocks of electricity through Eve. Her mouth is dry and her ears ring.

She gives a deep groan on top of Eve and suddenly flops forward, pushing her weight into a hand next to Eve’s head. Blonde strands tickle Eve’s face and she looks up into pleasure-riddled eyes. It’s too much for Eve to bare, she feels hazardously flammable, one strike of friction equipped to set her ablaze. 

“Touch me.” 

Villanelle doesn’t hesitate when she pulls her fingers from herself and pushes them under Eve’s underwear. They’re already slick and so is Eve and the rhythm she starts is godly, every stroke a silent worship. She’s vaguely aware of her shuffling back; is very much aware of the silky, wet flesh that grinds down against her thigh. 

_“Fuck.”_ There’s a flash of glee in her eyes when she drags the response from Eve and her mouth curls up at the edges. 

The original tempo is thrown out the window when Villanelle begins to chase her own pleasure against Eve’s leg. Her fingers pump in erratic patterns as she grinds faster and faster. All that elegance and stylish grace she’d once found so integral to Villanelle has vanished as she humps against her, wild and unfettered and ultimately selfish. Eve can tell she’s close. She gives up on holding her own weight and collapses down to rest her head on Eve’s chest. Her ragged breaths tickle the skin on Eve’s left breast. The high pitched cries that escape her throat finally take the form of a name— 

_“…Eve! Eve!”_ She lets out the strangled cry as she comes against her leg, freezing for a euphoric few seconds—the fingers inside Eve stilling—and then shuddering. There’s an odd moment when Eve decides to put her hand in Villanelle’s hair and stroke her head. It’s the type of touch one might give a longterm lover or spouse but it feels natural like they’ve been here before. 

She doesn’t stop to bask in the pleasure. There is no emotional release, Eve supposes. Once the final sparks have dissipated she starts up her movements again; clearly with every intention of making Eve come undone. She sits up on an elbow to watch her face as she fucks her, eyes wide like she’s witnessing fireworks for the first time. 

The tension pulled tight in Eve’s stomach feels like running full pelt towards a cliff’s edge. She knows there’s no going back— _how did I end up here?_ —but the final descent still fills her with unrelenting dread and exhilaration. When the wet sounds and the sight of her thrusting forearm and the feeling of her so deep inside overcome her, Eve’s hips buck and tremble. She comes relatively quietly, only a low groan spilling from her mouth. 

She spots a crack in the ceiling she didn’t notice was there before as she lets her breathing even out. Her focus is interrupted when Villanelle slips her fingers out and puts them in her mouth. _Fuck._ She’s part horrified, partly embarrassed, part sickeningly turn on by the sight. She can tell it shows on her face when Villanelle smiles that gleeful smile again as if she’s aced a test. 

“Stroke my head again.” She says and slumps her head back down to Eve’s chest. Eve almost feels a bit embarrassed, having thought she hadn’t noticed the gesture, but then decides that’s ridiculous and pushes her fingers back into the blonde strands. 

Villanelle’s naked body is draped over her like the most expensive throw she’d ever own, her legs still clamped around her thigh possessively. Eve feels that jilt of panic from childhood when her angry house cat would demand to be petted, lest she be faced with a wounding bite. She looks back up at the crack in the ceiling as she scratches her scalp. _Don’t judge me,_ she thinks.

**Author's Note:**

> hey this is my first villaneve fic, please let me what you think!! my tumblr is wretcheddyke if you want me to write a story for you🥺


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